


academic decathlons and peace offerings

by a_matter_of_loyalty



Series: Tales of Tony Stark and Peter Parker (AKA Iron Dad and Spider Son) [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Flash Thompson Redemption, Flash Thompson is not a jerk, Gen, Iron Dad, Iron Family (mentioned, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, Past bullying (mentioned), Peter Parker is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, academic decathlon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26150653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_matter_of_loyalty/pseuds/a_matter_of_loyalty
Summary: “Geez, Flash, you boughttwodrinks?” MJ snorts. “You do remember that Ned’s out, right? That meansyou’regoing to be in for the entire competition. You better not need the bathroom halfway through and cost us the championship.”Flash’s cheeks burn in embarrassment. He mumbles, barely loud enough to be heard, “They’re not both for me.”Without another word, he shoves his second cup of coffee in Peter’s direction before Peter can even process his statement.Peter blinks dumbly down at the proffered cup.Flash crosses his arms over his chest, mortified by Peter’s stunned silence, and quickly snarls, “Justtake it, loser.”“I... what?”“Ned’s sick,” Flash says simply.OR: In which Peter realizes Flash is not the awful guy he makes himself out to be.ft. a Decathlon competition, a dinner with Aunt May, Mr. Stark and Flash Thompson that isn’t nearly as awkward as Peter thought it would be, and some good old Flash Redemption
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Tales of Tony Stark and Peter Parker (AKA Iron Dad and Spider Son) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815769
Comments: 47
Kudos: 628
Collections: The Best Irondad/Spiderson Fics, The Best Peter Parker Fluff Fics, The Best Peter Parker Whump Fics, The Best of the Best MCU Fics, marvel fics that are marvelous





	academic decathlons and peace offerings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canonismybitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonismybitch/gifts).



> dedicating this one to Montse — happy birthday, my fave coffee enthusiast!!! You're amazing and I love you more than words can express <3 
> 
> anyway, I know you like Flash Redemption fics, so I hope you enjoy :)

“ _Hey, Pete!_ ” Ned’s voice crows in his ear. Peter winces—both at the loud, poor-quality _crackling_ sound emitted by the speaker, and at Ned’s voice, high-pitched and nasally with sickness. “ _How’s it going?_ ”

“We’re still on the way, Ned,” Peter replies dutifully, half-amused. Ned has been non-stop spamming his phone with texts since their bus departed from the school parking lot, leaving Ned waving a frantic _goodbye_ as he repeatedly blew his nose. Peter had barely left Ned’s latest check-in text unanswered for _five minutes_ before Ned finally succumbed to his curiosity and called. “The answer hasn’t changed in the minutes since your last text.”

“ _You have to keep me updated,_ ” Ned whines. “ _I’m dying here. I need a distraction._ ”

Peter snorts, unfazed by Ned’s theatrics. “You’re not _dying,_ ” he says lazily. “And if you make me ask the bus driver how close we are _one more time,_ I think he might actually strangle me. He’s _already_ giving me the evil eye. And if he strangles me, you know I’ll have to return as a ghost to strangle you, too. Can a ghost even _do_ that? I’m pretty sure neither of us wants to find out the answer to that.”

“ _Actually, I want to know,_ ” Ned pipes up. “ _That would be_ so _cool. Getting strangled by a ghost? Sign me up._ ” He snickers to himself, but the sound is broken by a series of harsh coughs. His amusement abruptly dies, replaced by a _groan_ of agony. “ _Oh, god,_ ” he bemoans his fate, “ _why me?_ ”

Peter grimaces. “Sorry, bud,” he says sympathetically, vividly remembering his own last run-in with any sort of sickness. It was ages ago—he hasn’t fallen ill since the spider bite—but he still remembers it as if it happened yesterday: flashes of burning _heat_ and frigid _cold_ running through his body all at once, turning him inside out and leaving him gasping on his bathroom floor. It wasn't until a week later that he finally reemerged from his nest of tissues, staggering out of the bathroom and destroying the sink on his way out. He doubts he’ll ever forget the horror that seized him as he stared at the sink crumbling in his hands—his first realization that he’s _changed,_ that he’s become a _freak_.

He shakes his head to clear the memory. Ned doesn’t need him to lament his _own_ misfortune right now. “Get some sleep, man,” he advises. “I’ll bet you anything your mom will have some soup ready for you when you wake up.”

There’s a pause, as if Ned is thinking it through, and then: “ _But what if—_ ”

“Ned,” Peter interrupts, predicting Ned’s argument before it can even leave his mouth, “ _go to sleep._ I’ll keep you updated, I promise.”

Ned grumbles incoherently to himself. “ _I can’t_ believe _I got sick right before our_ final _Decathlon competition in this championship,_ ” he complains.

Peter hadn’t been able to believe it either. They’d both been looking forward to the finals for _ages_ —it’s their first tournament since the Washington DC _disaster_ , and since MJ took up the mantle of captain. Peter can’t count how many sleepovers they’ve had, spent bouncing questions and answers off each other as they lay sprawled out on Peter’s cramped bed, Peter occasionally backflipping onto the ceiling whenever he gets stuck on a particularly annoying topic.

(MJ, of course, had barely batted an eye at the first signs of Ned’s fever and the realization that he wouldn’t be able to make the finals. Only the minute downturn of her lips had betrayed her annoyance. 

_"Go get yourself checked out at the nurse’s office, dork,” MJ orders after Ned’s umpteenth sneeze in the middle of History class._

_Ned begrudgingly leaves to obey, tuning out the sounds of Peter’s unsympathetic snickers with practiced ease._

_Later, when Ned eventually shuffles back towards them with a miserable look on his face and a note from the nurse, MJ takes one look at his red-rimmed eyes and worn-out appearance and rolls her eyes. “Go home, loser,” she sighs. “Get better soon—but not too soon, because I swear to god, Leeds, if you miraculously get better_ before _we get back from the competition, I’ll have your head.”_

_Ned only nods sheepishly. “Sorry, MJ,” he mumbles._

_“I can’t believe I’m going to have to let Flash_ actively _participate,” is all she says, but despite the disappointed shake of her head, there is something telling about the way she bites her lip and tracks Ned’s movements as he leaves the room. There is no hiding the furrow in her brows, or the cluck of her tongue that conveys_ worry _better than any words can._ )

“Yeah, I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you,” Peter warns jokingly. “Flash hasn’t stopped gloating since we left Midtown. MJ looks like she’s about to snap.”

Peter can practically _hear_ Ned flinch. “ _Okay, yeah, I’m going to avoid her like the plague when she gets back. Thanks for the heads up._ ”

Peter laughs. “Meanwhile, I’m stuck here with _both_ an MJ on the warpath and a smug Flash.”

(The worst part of Ned’s untimely fever is undoubtedly the fact that Peter now has to room with _Flash._

Which… yeah. Peter has no idea what the hell to expect. He’s kind of terrified he won’t live to participate in the competition tomorrow.)

“ _Yeah, I don’t envy you,_ ” Ned snickers, though Peter can barely hear his amusement through his sniffles. “ _You know, since I can’t be there, you better make sure our school gets another trophy for me, Peter. And don’t you dare let Flash answer the winning question, or we’ll never hear the end of it._ ”

Peter laughs again. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do my best.”

Ned falls silent for a moment long enough that Peter thinks he’s finally hung up. But just as Peter starts to pull the phone away from his ear, Ned’s voice crackles through the speaker once more: “ _Are you nervous?_ ”

Peter thinks. “For the competition?”

Ned snorts. “ _Of course not,_ ” he says incredulously. Ned’s always had more faith in Peter than Peter himself. “ _I know you packed your Spidey suit._ ”

It comes out like an accusation.

Peter winces. “I did,” he admits hesitantly. He reaches under his seat and pats his backpack twice, as if to reassure himself that it’s still there. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see MJ turn to him questioningly and mouth the words, _you good? Don’t tell me you forgot something._

He shakes his head and forces on a grin. _I’m good,_ he mouths back, desperately _not_ thinking of all the reasons why he might _not_ be ‘good’. He forcefully pushes away the thought of weapons dealers and elevator malfunctions and collapsing buildings. 

“It’s just a precaution,” he says out loud to Ned. _That’s all it is._ “I’m not worried. _Nothing’s_ going to happen.”

“ _Uh-huh. Worst case scenario: another baddie will turn up and you’ll have to leave to save the day. You’ll look like a flake, but that’s old news. Besides, you’ll at least be a flake who moonlights as a hero._ ”

( _Hero._ Ned was the first person who ever said the word _hero_ in relation to him. He says it all the time, now—with ease and confidence and _nonchalance_ , as if he’s completely comfortable throwing around a word that’s better suited to people like Tony Stark and Colonel Rhodes. _Heroes._

He says it with _faith,_ as if Peter could ever live up to their legacies.

Ned makes him _want_ to—to be better, to be _good enough_ , to deserve the title. 

Ned makes him _believe_.)

“Oh, god, no,” Peter hisses, distracting himself from the way the word _hero_ sounds as it rolls off his best friend’s tongue. “No talking about worst case scenarios, Ned! You’re going to jinx us!”

“ _That’s not a real thing._ ”

“Then how do you explain last month and the Incident we no longer speak of?”

“ _Peter! Come on! It never happened, remember?_ ”

“Whatever. Either way, stop thinking up all the ways this trip could end in tragedy, because we’re going to be _fine_ ,” Peter insists. Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll be able to believe it. He _wants_ to believe it—of course he does—but his mind refuses to listen to reason. He’s always been a magnet for trouble, after all. “Toomes is in jail. There will be no ‘ _baddie_ ’ to ruin another one of our Decathlon competitions. The _real_ worst case scenario is the one we’re already living through now! As in, the one where you’re sick and forced to miss _the_ competition we've been working towards all semester, and _I’m_ stuck with a guy who calls me _Penis_ as my roommate!” 

“ _Okay,_ ” Ned relents, shrugging.

Peter counts himself lucky that Ned is feeling gracious enough to not laugh in his face at his misfortune. He already has to deal with MJ’s relentlessly (but subtly, because it’s _MJ_ ) amused smirks—and he can’t even avoid her teasing by hanging up or something, because _she’s right there_.

“Okay,” Peter parrots. He casts his eyes heavenward and _begs_ for a miracle. He _cannot_ deal with an entitled supervillain on top of an entitled roommate. Maybe this time, his Parker Luck will give him a much-needed break. Just this once. _Please._ “Okay. Now _go._ Get off your phone and _sleep_ before Mrs. Leeds catches you. I do _not_ want to be on the receiving end of one of her infamous lectures if she finds out I’m keeping you from resting.”

“ _Coward_.”

“Shut up, Ned. _Bye_.”

“... _yeah, yeah, I’m going. Don’t forget to keep me updated!_ ”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, their bus _finally_ pulls up in front of the hotel they’ll be staying in. They all traipse into the lobby like a flock of sheep and flop down onto the sofas as Mr. Harrington checks in for the lot of them. Peter can barely keep his eyes open long enough to quickly shoot Ned the promised update. 

Before long, his eyes are dropping closed and he’s sinking deeper into the sofa. Hugging his backpack to his chest, he drops his head forward, too tired to think about the utter (exaggerated) _horror_ that would dawn on Mr. Stark’s face if he could see Peter now: head pillowed on his backpack, likely crushing the multimillion-dollar suit stored in its confines.

“I’m exhausted,” Abe groans, echoing Peter’s sentiments as he stretches his arms out with a yawn. “I feel like I could hibernate.”

“Don’t even think about it,” MJ warns. “We need to get some studying done before dinner.” Her voice is one that brooks no argument—it’s full of steel, one of the main reasons she’s done so well as captain. No one really expected Mr. Harrington to appoint her as their new team captain after Liz’s departure, but now Peter can’t see anyone else in the position. Being a leader is MJ’s _calling_ ; in the months since she’s taken up the post, she’s become an expert at keeping their team organized. 

Abe doesn’t even bother to protest—a testament to the effectiveness of MJ’s iron-fisted rule. She’s strict, but she’s also _fair_. It keeps them on their toes. Truthfully, they’ve never been more excited—or more prepared—for a competition.

Unsurprisingly, MJ gets her way in the end: after they’ve all dropped their bags off in their own rooms, they reconvene in MJ’s room. Without prompting, they arrange themselves into a semicircle on the carpeted floor, facing the bed.

“All right, losers,” MJ calls out over their idle chattering, silencing them instantly. She smirks at them from her place on the bed, overlooking them all like a queen would her subordinates. She sorts through her flashcards, humming on the occasion that she spots a particularly interesting card. “Who’s up first? Any takers?”

Flash, eager to prove himself being the only alternate of the team, raises his hand. “I’ll go.” Flash has gotten better about feeling comfortable with his place on the Academic Decathlon team since Washington and their shared near-death experience, but his old insecurities still rear their ugly heads every now and then. He’s different from everyone else, and he _knows_ it. 

He also knows that the team would never judge him for it, but that reassurance doesn’t stop him from feeling singled out. (From feeling _left_ out.) 

MJ grins wickedly—the same type of grin Flash has seen her give to Peter and Cindy and everyone else—and the feeling lessens. He might not be the same as the rest of them, but that doesn’t make him any less a part of the team. They’re all in this _together_ , after all. 

“Props to Flash for volunteering as tribute,” MJ drawls, folding her legs over each other so she’s sitting criss-cross applesauce. She leans forward intimidatingly, staring Flash down. “All right, your first topic is…”

Flash gulps and crosses his fingers.

MJ’s eyes dart to the flashcards in her hands, zeroing in on the one at the top of the pile. “Chinua Achebe,” she says decisively. Her smirk broadens. “ _Things Fall Apart._ ”

Flash’s mouth falls open. He drops his head in his hands and _groans_.

MJ immediately reaches behind her, grabs one of the throw pillows scattered across the bed, and _hurls_ it at Flash. “Come on, Eugene,” she says impatiently, expertly ignoring his startled yelp. “We don’t have all day.”

Flash whimpers. “I’m not a literature person,” he protests. “You _know_ that.”

“That’s the _point_ ,” she huffs without missing a beat.

Flash scowls at her, one hand clutching the throw pillow as if he’s contemplating whether or not to take his revenge. MJ leans back on her elbows and shoots him a wordless _look_ , eyebrows arched and unimpressed, and he immediately drops the pillow with a wince.

Charles nudges Flash in the ribs and coughs out a muffled _chicken_. 

Flash scowls at him indignantly. The rest of the team, naturally, howls with laughter. 

For a moment, just a moment, everything else disappears. The past trickles away into the distance, faint and insignificant. In that single moment, they aren’t the Decathlon team who nearly died last year. They aren’t the team whose former captain had to relocate across the country because her father turned out to be a criminal. They aren’t the team full of fractures and fissions, of traumas and insecurities, of fears and uncertainties.

For a moment, they’re just a group of kids in a lavish hotel room, laughter rippling off them in waves. They’re just a group of kids with smiles on their faces and light in their eyes.

Peter sits back, lets himself forget about potential disasters and worst case scenarios, and laughs with his friends.

* * *

The next morning, Peter wakes up late. Well, not _late_ late—the Decathlon itself isn’t until later in the day—but Mr. Harrington insisted they meet up in the lobby at eight o’clock _on the dot_ and it’s now fifteen minutes to eight. Peter had been hoping to wake up earlier to get in a bit of cram studying, but it’s too late for that now.

He groans and throws himself off the bed, staggering into the bathroom for a quick shower. Picking out a change of clothes on the way in, he throws Flash a half-hearted pout as he passes him. He knows it’s not Flash’s fault—if anything, it’s his own fault—but he also knows that if Ned had come along as originally planned, Ned would have automatically _known,_ without even being asked, to wake him up early for a last-minute study session.

(Honestly, rooming with Flash isn’t nearly as terrible as Peter initially imagined. He’d expected Flash to snarl at him and snub his intelligence—and maybe even hog all the extra pillows—the entire night. He’d expected screaming and fights over who gets to shower first and _World War III_.

Instead, they’d managed to share a _civilized_ conversation as they helped each other study for the competition, their common fear of pissing MJ off greater than any hostility between them. Flash had even called him _Parker_ —which, while not quite his first name, is still a marked improvement from the dreaded nickname _Penis_ —and let him queue up a few songs of his choice to play on one memorable occasion.

Still, as surprisingly pleasant as it’s been, Peter misses his best friend.)

Soon enough, Peter’s ready and dressed in a white button-up and a pair of formal black slacks, his mustard yellow Decathlon jacket slung over one arm. 

“Ready?” Flash, waiting idly by on his side of the room, gives him a once-over.

Peter nods. Now that he’s more _awake,_ he can’t help but feel guilty for being annoyed at Flash for his own failure to wake up. “Ready,” he says instead of _sorry for being a grouch,_ or _sorry for making you wait,_ or even _sorry for thinking you were going to be a terrible roommate_. He hopes Flash can understand the apology anyway through the sheepish expression on his face. “Let’s head down.”

Flash just nods, wordlessly hopping off his twin bed and leading the way out. When they arrive at the elevator bay, he hesitates for only a few seconds before marching in, the look on his face resembling that of a soldier about to go to war.

Peter looks away, his face falling as he swallows the feeling of _failure_ that swells and crests in his chest. Like any wave, the shame comes and goes. Today, facing the evidence of his failure, his regret reeks particularly strong. Flash’s newfound fear of elevators is one that is mirrored in nearly all of their Decathlon teammates, and it’s not one that Peter—nor Spider-Man—can assuage. 

(It’s a difficult pill to swallow—Peter has _powers,_ and yet there’s nothing he can do to help his teammates. Not this time. 

Spider-Man was too late, and it cost his friends their comfort and sense of safety.)

The elevator spits them out on the first floor less than a minute later, but it’s a minute that stretches on and on and on. The entire way down, Peter pretends not to notice the way Flash’s foot taps a rhythmic beat on the vinyl tiles, as if in time to a silent song of panic that only Flash can hear. 

Later, when they leave the elevator and Flash subtly relaxes, the tension in his shoulders dissipating, Peter pretends not to notice that, too. He deafens himself to the sound of Flash’s heavy sigh of relief and tries not to think of their last Decathlon, his teammates trapped in an unstable elevator in the Washington Monument as what was meant to be a celebratory moment morphed into the worst day of their lives. 

“Peter, Flash!” Mr. Harrington calls them over. The comforted look on his face mirrors Flash’s countenance, leaving nausea to roll through Peter. Mr. Harrington had spent _weeks_ leading up to this competition convincing everyone’s guardians (and convincing _himself_ ) that the kids would be _safe_ this time; that there would be no _almost_ falling to their deaths (no almost _anything_ ). “Oh thank god, you two made it! Let’s get going—everyone else is already waiting on the bus.”

Peter hastens his pace and obligingly follows Flash and Mr. Harrington onto the bus, steeling himself for his first national finals since he quit and then rejoined Decathlon. Washington doesn't count, not really—he hadn’t even made it to the actual competition back then, too busy being _stuck_ in the Damage Control Deep Storage Vault.

From the back of the bus, MJ shoots him an unimpressed glare, mouthing a severe _late_ to him. Despite her annoyance, though, she’s quick to pat the seat next to her, jerking her head in a stiff nod.

He cringes and hurries down the aisle, knowing better than to make her wait any longer. A murmured _sorry_ tumbles out of the side of his mouth as he slides into the empty seat beside her _._

“For your sake, you better pray we’re not late,” she hisses, and then pulls out her flashcards to quiz them one last time.

* * *

As it turns out, they’re _not_ late. In fact, they’re hilariously _early_. Mr. Harrington, being the paranoid man he is, had made them leave early enough to account for heavy traffic— _nonexistent_ heavy traffic. By the time they arrive at Monona Terrace, the convention center where the competition will take place, registration hasn’t even opened yet.

“All right, why don’t you kids wait in the coffee shop across the road?” Mr. Harrington suggests at the sound of their groans. “I’ll wait in line and text the group chat as soon as registration begins.”

They don’t need to be asked twice; they’re _teenagers,_ after all. They live and breathe coffee.

“I’ll go save us a table,” Peter volunteers as they file into the coffee shop, partly because Aunt May would be horrified if he didn’t (she’d drilled into him the importance of polite social etiquette since he was a _toddler_ ) and partly because he wants to appease MJ after being the last to board the bus.

MJ nods in acknowledgement, her lips quirking upwards into her signature half-smile half-smirk, and Peter knows it’s the closest thing to a _thank you_ he’ll ever get from her. Nonetheless, the small smile—and the twinkle in her eyes reserved only for him and Ned—sends a burst of warmth spreading through his chest, and he walks off in search of a table with a bounce in his step.

He doesn’t notice the way Flash zeroes in on him with a scrutinizing, narrow-eyed stare, or the thoughtful frown that tugs on his bully-slash-nemesis-slash-civilized-roommate’s lips, or the way Flash immediately rifles through his wallet to recheck his budget (if the word _budget_ could ever even apply to Flash Thompson).

It isn’t until the rest of the team finds him at an empty table, scrolling absentmindedly on his phone as he keeps the rest of their seats unoccupied, that Peter notices that something is off. He doesn’t realize what, exactly, that _something_ is until his teammates sit down and MJ reaches across the table to whack Flash upside the head.

“Geez, Flash, you bought _two_ drinks?” their team captain snorts, curling her lip in mild irritation. “You do remember that Ned’s out, right? That means _you’re_ going to be in for the entire competition. You better not need the bathroom halfway through and cost us the championship.”

Flash’s cheeks burn in embarrassment. Peter has just enough time to wonder why—MJ has _definitely_ said worse things to Flash before, ranging from _your latest History test score tells me you have no room to make fun of Peter, Eugene_ to _there’s a reason Parker’s the starter and you’re the alternate_ —before Flash mumbles, barely loud enough to be heard, “They’re not both for me.” 

Without another word, he shoves his second cup of coffee in Peter’s direction before Peter can even process his statement.

Peter blinks dumbly down at the proffered cup. The familiar scent of bitter coffee and steamed milk wafts into his nose, reminding him of Aunt May’s favorite Italian roast. _Cappuccino,_ he thinks, spotting the barista’s artsy scrawl scribbled across one side of the paper cup.

Flash crosses his arms over his chest, mortified by Peter’s stunned silence. He refuses to show he‘s affected, though, and quickly snarls, “Just _take it_ , loser.”

Flash’s offhand _loser_ is different from MJ’s—it lacks MJ’s undisguised affection and familiarity, lacks the soft edge to it born of fondness, but there’s something... _warm_ in it nonetheless. Something easy and friendly, unlike Flash’s usual barbed remarks.

“I... what?” Peter blinks again. God, if he doesn’t get his act together, MJ might very well demote him to an alternate and give Flash what he’s always wanted—especially since they have less than an _hour_ until the competition starts, and all he can think is: _huh?_ But in his defense, Flash has never bought him _anything_. Before today, Peter would have bet good money that Flash would sooner pay to make sure Peter _didn’t_ get any coffee than to make sure he _did_.

Flash’s shoulders hunch inwards. “Ned’s sick,” he says simply, as if that is answer enough. As if it’s no big deal. As if it doesn’t carry the weight of a thousand more words, of _Ned isn’t here and I know he usually buys an extra drink for you_ , of _I know your aunt struggles and I don’t want you to feel left out,_ of _I know you don’t like to buy luxuries for yourself because that’s just the kind of selfless person you are._ As if it doesn’t hint at the fact that he _notices_ , that he _cares_. 

MJ snorts again, this time with unrestrained glee—at Flash’s expense. “Aww, Flash,” she coos, easily perceiving the sentiments behind his actions, “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t!” Flash spouts the denial defensively, hunching his shoulders even more. “But this is _nationals_ , and everyone needs to be at their best, and...” he trails off awkwardly, concluding his statement with a helpless shrug. 

MJ raises a single eyebrow, and Flash sighs. “I’m not about to lose because Peter doesn’t have his coffee buddy with him,” he mutters sullenly. (MJ has always had a certain infallible _way_ of making people tell her the truth even when they don’t want to. Peter thinks it’s the ferocity of her stare—the way she makes people feel like they’re staring into the abyss whenever she pins them with her tried-and-true Look of Disappointment™.)

Peter’s lips twitch slightly. He exchanges a surprised glance with MJ, whose eyes gleam with the faintest hint of _pride_ , and teases, “Are you admitting the team needs me to win?”

Flash’s glare cuts to him now. “What? No! _As if,_ Parker,” Flash sneers. “The only way you could possibly contribute to our victory is by distracting the other teams with your stupidity.” Despite the severity of his words, his voice lacks its usual heat. Truthfully, Flash is inwardly grateful that Peter didn’t burst into grateful tears or something and make a big deal out of the whole coffee situation. Flash wouldn’t even know how to react if that happened; he’s never been one for earnest heart-to-hearts, after all. He can hardly remember the last time someone said the actual words _thank you_ to him.

Peter just grins, unfazed by Flash’s insult, and sticks his tongue out as if to retort, _is that the best you can do?_

To be fair, it’s hard to be offended when he can still remember Flash leaning over the gap between their beds last night and quietly asking him for the answer to a difficult question as Peter’s favorite Led Zeppelin song ( _Led Zeppelin!? You think this is Led Zeppelin? Christ, Parker, are you_ trying _to give me a heart attack? You know I have heart problems!_ ) plays in the background.

Flash rolls his eyes in response, wordlessly flipping Peter the bird.

Peter’s grin widens. He reaches forward and wraps his fingers around Flash’s extra cup of coffee ( _his_ cup of coffee), pulling the paper cup towards himself. Tangible _heat_ seeps through and warms his hands, bringing him back to movie nights with Aunt May and Mr. Stark, a shared bowl of popcorn on his lap and three mugs of hot chocolate within arm’s reach. 

Languidly sipping his coffee, Peter privately decides not to mention that he has an ( _absurdly_ large) allowance from his ( _even more absurdly_ rich) mentor sitting in his pocket, or that he usually prefers lattes over cappuccinos. Later, he’ll buy a couple cookies and slip them into Flash’s jacket pocket, but for now, he stays quiet. He doesn’t want Flash to take him refusing the coffee on the grounds that he actually _does_ have the money to buy one himself as a sign of him spitting on Flash’s gesture—peace offering? _Wait,_ is _this a peace offering?_ he wonders, grin softening slightly into something more earnest.

He and Flash have butted heads since middle school (mostly due to Flash’s refusal to tolerate their _differences_ ). Peter eventually came to accept Flash’s crude remarks as just another aspect of his life, but he won’t lie: a change of pace would be nice. 

He wouldn’t mind being friends with Flash, he thinks. Flash can be mind-numbingly _arrogant,_ sure, but he’s also a hard-worker. He’s shown himself to be determined to prove that he isn’t simply riding his wealthy parents’ coattails, and that his successes are _his own._ And when it comes to something he’s genuinely invested in, he’s _passionate_ in a way that inspires even Peter. He stands up for what he believes in, whether that’s Spider-Man or his preference of surrealism over impressionism or the fact that _Lucky Charms_ is the absolute best cereal brand.

No, Peter wouldn’t mind at all. _Huh,_ he thinks, considering. _A peace offering._

He hums and smiles at Flash over the top of his cappuccino. 

Flash squints back at him, his expression settling into something that isn’t quite a smile but isn’t a glare either, and Peter feels _warm._

(Or maybe that’s just the coffee.)

* * *

The team exits the coffee shop as one, leaving their refreshments and their nerves behind. 

Peter checks his phone on the way back to Monona Terrace, smiling as he sees his text notifications.

**Guy in the Chair:** _good luck pete!!! show flash who’s boss_

**Aunt May:** _I’m almost there! I promise I’ll make it in time to cheer you on for the Super Quiz!_

**Aunt May:** _In the meantime — knock ‘em dead kiddo, I’m rooting for you :)_

**Mr. Stark:** _you’re gonna do great, bud. kick their asses!_

**Mr. Stark:** _in all seriousness, you’ve got nothing to worry about. i didn’t stay up until 3 AM drilling you for nothing. you’ve got this, pete_

**Happy:** _We’re all cheering for you, kid._

**Happy:** _P.S. I’ve got churros waiting for you when you win._

**Mr. Colonel Rhodes:** _[tony-being-a-supportive-dad.jpg]_

**Mr. Colonel Rhodes:** _just in case tones tries to pretend he isn’t the most cliche dad in the world ;)_

**Mr. Colonel Rhodes:** _p.s. if he’s the cliche dad, that means i get to be the cliche cool uncle, right? yeah, i’m definitely the cool uncle. and as the cool uncle, i should probably wish you luck, too. so yeah, good luck, buddy! (not that you’ll need it)_

**Iron Mom:** _Good luck, hon! You’ve done the work—now all you have to do is show up and win. We all believe in you!_

He grins as he reads through all of their texts, trying (and failing) to tamp down the embarrassed blush on his cheeks. Mere months ago, he would have felt blessed just to see May’s name pop up on his phone screen on the day of a Decathlon competition. May had been his only family for as long as he’s known, after all. She’s been there from the start; he knows she _will_ always be there.

But she isn’t the only one anymore. He has an overprotective dad-disguised-as-a-badass-superhero-mentor, an awe-inspiring CEO who regularly watches movies and eats ice cream with him, and two ‘cool uncles’, too, now. It’s an unconventional family, sure, but it’s _his._

May will always be his aunt— _no one_ can replace her—but he has room in his life for everyone else, too. Aunt May has always teased him for having _a heart big enough to love an entire village of people,_ after all.

He shoots them all a quick _thanks!!!_ and a picture of his teammates going through registration before tucking the phone back into his pocket.

_It’s time._

...He tries not to think about Flash, staring blankly into the distance as everyone else gets in touch with their own families, his hands shoved into his pockets whereas their teammates’ hands are curled around their phones, thumbs flying across keyboards. He tries not to think about Flash, phone unbombarded by supportive texts. He tries not to think about Flash, smile tight-lipped and eyes sullen—sullen and resigned and _defeated_.

He tries not to think about Flash, but he can’t _help_ but do so.

He’s always had Aunt May. Even before he gained another handful of personal cheerleaders in the form of Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, Colonel Rhodes and Happy, he had his aunt. He had _someone_ who believed in his dreams unconditionally.

Flash, though...

He realizes, with a start, that he’s never met Flash’s parents before, even though he’s seen everyone else on the Decathlon team interact with their parents. He’s even been _introduced_ to everyone else’s parents, however briefly—a quick _hey guys, my dad couldn’t make it today but this is my mom_ here, or a shy _mom, dad, this is my decathlon team_ there.

He’s met Cindy’s parents (a strict but doting pair who greeted the team with a Tupperware box full of homemade cookies), Abe’s father (a friendly, laid-back man accompanied by Abe’s little sister and armed with a sparkly _Go Midtown!_ banner), Charles’s parents (a reserved but polite pair who shook all of their hands as if they were mutual business partners), Betty’s mother (a kind, encouraging woman who treated them all to dinner after the Washington incident), and even Sally’s parents (who’d been busy but still indulging and _present_ ), but never Flash’s. 

In fact, he doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen Flash’s parents show up to a single Decathlon meeting or competition. 

And Flash has certainly never invited the team over; even when it was his turn to host the Decathlon team for their bimonthly out-of-school meetings, he took them to the local library instead of his house, unlike everyone else.

Peter swallows. He can’t ignore Flash, as much as he wants to. 

“Flash!” he calls out, jogging over and plastering a bright grin onto his face. Aunt May’s _knock ‘em dead_ and Mr. Stark’s _you’re gonna do great_ echo in his mind. He can’t imagine competing in a tournament of this scale _without_ their ever-present support. He tries to channel that sentiment, that feeling of _warmth_ and _contentment_ and _gratitude_ , as Flash turns towards him, a defensively aggressive look on his face. 

“ _What_?” Flash snaps.

Peter thinks of Aunt May, who never fails to attend his Decathlon competitions and who he _knows_ he’ll be able to spot in the audience during the Super Quiz segment. He thinks of Mr. Stark, who eagerly helped him study for the competition over salad and lasagna. He thinks of Happy, who pretended not to care but who let Peter ramble aimlessly about African art and the origins of early African civilizations without protest during long car-rides across Queens. He thinks of Ned, who didn’t once think to be jealous after the nurse declared him too sick to join the rest of the team in Madison, Wisconsin, and who instead readily joined the rest of Peter’s moral support.

He thinks of his unconventional family, loud and unabashed and _overt_ with their love, and he smiles, letting his face fill with the encouragement they’ve readily given him. Flash deserves an Aunt May, too. “You ready?”

Flash blinks. He clearly didn’t expect that, of all things, to spill out of Peter’s mouth. “I… yeah.”

“Yeah.” Peter nods. They’re ready. “Let’s win this.” The word _together_ goes unsaid, but not unheard.

Slowly, almost as if unsurely, Flash smiles back. It throws Peter off, at first—Peter’s pretty sure it’s the first _real_ smile Flash has ever given him. 

(Peter thinks it might be the first real smile to grace Flash’s face, period. There’s a stunned, breathless look in Flash’s eyes that tells Peter he feels out of his depth, like a fledgling taking to the air for the first time.)

But within split-seconds, Peter’s _beaming_ again, the thought of _Go Midtown!_ banners and warm cookies and Aunt May’s crushing hug and cappuccinos-doubling-as-peace-offerings flitting through his mind.

“Let’s win this,” Flash echoes, the sentiment of _together_ reflected in his eyes, and it feels like a new beginning. 

It feels like acceptance.

* * *

They do, ultimately. It’s only by the skin of their teeth, but they do win.

The winning question ends up being on a topic Peter _knows_ like the back of his hand. The instant the question on infectious diseases— _how can siRNA fragments be used to treat Ebola?_ —leaves the proctor’s mouth, Peter straightens rapidly, memories of lying down on Mr. Stark’s cold lab floor and letting his chatter on diseases—the three diseases indicated by his 2017-2018 Decathlon topic handbook in particular—wash over him zipping through his mind all at once.

He reaches out, lightning fast, and slaps the buzzer.

The other Honors students they’re competing against all _groan,_ eyeing Peter with warring tension and dread. Peter’s own team members tense, too, turning to him in anticipation. MJ glares at him with a look that says _you’re dead if you screw this up for us._

Peter gulps, but it’s too late to back down now. He faces forward. “A possible treatment for Ebola, siRNA fragments work by inhibiting Ebola RNA replication and use for protein synthesis.”

Aunt May shrieks excitedly from the audience, throwing her hands up in joy before the proctor can even confirm his answer.

A tense few seconds later, the proctor loudly declares that he’s won the Super Quiz round for Midtown High, and the first thought that enters Peter’s mind is: _Mr. Stark is never going to stop gloating when he finds out he’s the reason I knew the answer to the winning question._

The second thought is: _holy shit, we_ won. _We won!_

“We won!” Abe echoes his sentiments aloud. ”Holy crap, Peter, that was _awesome_!”

Peter laughs giddily as his teammates devolve into excited babbling and incoherent cheering all around him. Betty _shrieks_ with joy, sharing enthusiastic high-fives with everyone she can reach. 

“MJ!” Peter calls, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Did you hear that? We _won_.”

MJ turns around, still wide-eyed with shock and wonder. She looks like she can hardly believe it. “We did it,” she says numbly. She lifts her awestruck gaze and takes in the scene before her eyes: the audience on their feet, whistling and cheering for _them._ “We… actually _did it._ ”

Peter pauses, remembering what things were like after Mr. Harrington first declared MJ their new captain: she’d bombarded them with information packet after information packet to read up on, never giving them room to _breathe_. Three weeks of dizzying, laser-focused revision later, Peter finally gave in, throwing himself onto her couch and whining pleadingly, _you’re drilling us too hard, Em. This isn’t the military! You’re allowed to give us breaks, you know._

She’d scowled at him fiercely. When Ned lifted his head from the floor and propped his chin in the palm of his hand, chiming his enthusiastic agreement, she’d scowled at him, too. _We’re about to head into our first competition since I became captain,_ she’d reminded them sharply. _I still need to prove myself. I need to lead us to victory._

Today, Peter nudges her and winks. “ _You_ did it, MJ. You led us to victory.”

She inhales sharply. He doesn’t see it coming when she _throws_ her arms around him and _squeezes,_ whispering a quiet _thank you_ in his ear.

He grins and squeezes back.

When they part ways, there’s no sign of any gratitude or happiness on MJ’s face. It’s as if nothing even happened—but Peter can still feel the imprint of her arms around his shoulders, and the usual aloofness in her eyes have faded _just a bit_.

“Parker!”

Peter’s head snaps up, and MJ’s guard raises once more. “Flash?” he recognizes, glancing at his roommate in confusion. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees MJ give him a brief nod and wander away.

The hesitation on Flash’s face gives way to determination. “Parker,” he repeats with a sharp nod. “Good job. You were great.”

Peter can’t help the shock that lances through him. It’s the nicest thing Flash has ever said to him. It might very well be the _only_ nice thing Flash has ever said to him. “I – I was?” he stammers, and Flash gives him a deadpan stare. Peter laughs nervously and immediately tries to play it off, “I-I mean, thanks, Flash. You were great, too!”

Flash looks a little like he just bit into a lemon. “I wouldn’t have known the answer to that last question,” he points out bitterly.

“Yeah, well, you definitely have a leg up on me for the art and music questions,” Peter returns earnestly. “I don’t know _nearly_ as much as you do about Nok sculptures and Stone Age petroglyphs.”

Flash rewards him with a faint, but genuine, smile. “Thanks,” he acknowledges—but then his face falls drastically. “If only my parents thought any of that was actually _useful._ God forbid I wanted to go into _art_ ”—his voice drips with venomous sarcasm—“or anything _frivolous_ like that. No, of course not, how could I _possibly_ think of disgracing the family name like that?”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, the angry— _hurt_ —tone of Flash’s voice cutting into him like the serrated edge of a knife. He vaguely remembers seeing Flash linger outside of their circle mere moments ago, distancing himself from the rest of the team as he hovered over his phone and watched the bright, unchanging screen with unblinking intensity—with both a plea in his eyes and yet only a _sliver_ of cautious hope, as if he _knew_ he was inviting disappointment.

Peter hesitates. He thinks of Aunt May in the audience, rushing to her feet and cheering for Midtown as loud as she possibly can. If he tries hard enough, he can practically hear her shouts of _go, Peter! That’s my nephew who just answered the winning question! That’s my kid!_

He thinks of her making the effort to support his extracurriculars _always_ (yes, even his _crime-fighting_ extracurriculars, eventually) _,_ even when she’s all but asleep on her feet from working consecutive night shifts.

He makes a decision.

“My aunt and I—we, uh, we usually go for dinner after every Decathlon competition,” he starts, and a voice in the back of his mind is screaming _what the hell are you doing, Parker!?_ But even then, even as he hesitates, there’s another, _louder_ voice in his head that recalls Flash’s blank phone screen and urges him to _keep going._

He chooses to listen to the latter, forging blindly onwards: “I mean, last year was an exception because everything got a little crazy at the end, but, yeah. Dinner. It’s our tradition.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Flash demands, his voice small and meek—Peter would go so far as to say he sounds _insecure_ , were it not for the fact that the words ‘Flash Thompson’ and ‘insecure’ do not go together.

Peter shrugs, a little lost himself. “I thought maybe you’d, uh, want to join us? You don’t have to, of course, but…”

_But your parents aren’t here._

As if he can hear where Peter’s thoughts are heading, Flash’s expression darkens. The words _I don’t need your goddamn pity, Parker_ are already on the tip of his tongue.

“But my aunt is always wanting to meet more of my friends,” Peter concludes instead, smiling hesitantly.

The retort flees Flash in the blink of an eye as a choked, inhuman noise erupts from the back of his throat instead. _Friends?_ he wants to ask. He has half a mind to look behind him to make sure Peter isn’t talking to someone else on the Decathlon team or something, because _surely_ Peter can’t really be extending an offer of friendship to _him_ —not after everything he’s done. 

He’s not proud of it, but over the years, he’s taken so much of his raw _anger_ (at his parents, at himself, at _life_ in general) out on Peter, who is irritatingly smart and compassionate and _perfect_ , and who… who's willing to forgive and forget with a _smile_ on his face.

Flash suddenly feels sick to his stomach. 

Peter, clueless to Flash's sudden onslaught of guilt, clears his throat. “So, what do you say? Dinner?”

“Dinner?” Flash repeats dumbly. He doesn’t understand _why_.

Peter grins. “Uh-huh. Dinner,” he confirms. “Thai. It’s our favorite.”

“Thai,” Flash echoes. He pauses, sinking into thought for a prolonged moment. Maybe he _doesn’t_ understand, but Peter is standing in front of him now with the key to a door Flash has shied away from for as long as he can remember, and suddenly, Flash _aches_ with yearning. 

So for the first time in his entire life, Flash chooses to open the door. He chooses to take a leap of _faith_ , instead of turning away for the millionth time; he purses his lips and says tentatively, as if he’s afraid Peter might cackle and yell _sike!_ at any moment, “I can do Thai.”

Peter _beams._ “Great!” he chirps, genuinely excited despite his initial reservations. “MJ might join us—I’ll have to check.”

Flash nods. “That’s… that’d be nice,” he says quietly, and there’s a smile on his face. It’s faint, but _there._ Peter marvels at it—it’s a smile that lights up Flash’s entire face, his cheeks dimpling with happiness and his eyes crinkling at the corners. Flash seems to have forgotten entirely about his parents’ absence, hands finally free of his phone (which now lies forgotten in the pocket of his Decathlon blazer).

“Where did MJ go, anyway?” Peter mumbles to himself, slowly spinning around in a circle and searching the crowds for his friend’s familiar head of curls. 

Flash opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get so much as a word out, he’s cut off by a loud call of Peter’s name. 

“ _Peter_!” Peter’s aunt hollers. “Over here!”

Peter whirls around to face her in the blink of an eye. “Aunt May!” he calls back. “Come on, Flash, I’ll introduce you—”

He falters suddenly, halting in his tracks.

“Parker?” Flash comes up beside him. “Why’d you stop?”

Flash follows Peter’s wide-eyed gaze to the familiar figure of May Parker in the distance. He frowns, wondering what caught Peter’s attention; he doesn’t notice the _other_ familiar figure standing only a few feet away from May, a baseball cap pulled low over his head and a phone cradled to his ear. Or, if he does, he certainly doesn’t put two and two together and connect the face—hidden behind a pair of cheap, unwieldy sunglasses—to the household name that brands his phone.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Peter whispers furiously to himself. _What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_ thunders across his mind, a mantra of confusion. He blinks once, twice, _thrice_ , but the sight in front of him never changes.

There, in the middle of a crowd completely _blind_ to the famous figure in their midst, stands Tony Stark, nonchalantly engaged in a phone conversation as if it’s _completely normal_ for him to attend an Academic Decathlon competition all the way in _Wisconsin._ As if he doesn’t have _a thousand other things to do,_ ranging from developing the new StarkPhone to having a sit-down with goddamn _POTUS_ to _saving the world._

“Parker,” Flash prods, his voice drawing Peter back to reality.

Peter flinches. “Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, shaking off the initial shock. Honestly, he thinks, _why_ is he so surprised? _Of course_ Mr. Stark came. Mr. Stark _delights_ in embarrassing Peter in any way he can, so _of course_ he showed up. _Of course_ he’s here _._

_Goddamnit, Mr. Stark,_ he thinks with a sigh, unsure whether he should be exasperated that Mr. Stark ignored all of his (many, _many_ ) responsibilities to come to Peter’s Decathlon or pleased that _Mr. Stark ignored all of his (many, many) responsibilities to come to Peter’s Decathlon._

“Change of plans,” he announces out loud.

Flash recoils as if struck. “ _Oh_ ,” he mumbles, trying not to sound _too_ disappointed, shifting slightly so that he’s turned away from Peter. “Right. Whatever. I didn’t really want to join you and your aunt for dinner, anyway.” The hurt in his eyes, and the frown on his face where there had previously been an honest-to-god _smile_ , says otherwise.

Peter’s eyes widen. “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant,” he rushes to say, shaking his head firmly. Granted, it would be _so much easier_ to just go along with Flash’s assumption and take the out offered to him—especially since even the mere _thought_ of introducing Flash to _Tony Stark_ makes him cringe with dread. He’s pretty sure Flash _still_ doesn’t quite believe that he interns for Stark Industries, let alone that he _personally_ knows the owner of said company. 

It would be so much easier.

But Peter can still see the way Flash _brightened_ at his offer of dinner. He can still picture the smile that stretched across Flash’s face and reached his eyes. He can still remember the _warmth_ that danced in Flash’s expression, softening the edges of his usually harsh demeanor.

Peter’s not about to be the one to stomp out that ember of warmth. 

(And, well, Peter’s never been one to take the easy way out.)

“I just meant that, uh, we might have an extra guest joining us for dinner,” Peter hedges. “So? ‘You still up for it? I know you said you don’t want to, but _I’d_ like it if you came.”

Flash hesitates. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and there’s that smile again. Warm and real and _true_.

Peter silences a sigh of relief. “ _Awesome_ ,”—he bounces giddily on his heels, gesturing to Aunt May (and his annoying, incognito helicopter mentor) with a nod of his head as he starts to head their way—“you won’t regret it, I swear. Thai food is the _best_ celebration food.”

“We’ll see about that,” Flash snarks, getting his feet back under him. He even finds it in himself to smirk and tease, “I’m not sure I trust the taste of a guy who willingly listens to _rock music_ while he’s studying.”

A bark of amused laughter escapes Peter, who immediately looks startled by both Flash’s sudden regaining of his composure and his own reaction. He shakes his head, a pleased grin climbing up his lips. “It’s not _that_ weird! It keeps me from falling asleep! And just wait and see— _nothing_ beats Thai,” he promises.

“What are you kids talking about?” a _far_ too familiar voice slides into their conversation. Peter and Flash stop abruptly and look up to find themselves already in front of Aunt May (who, to her credit, looks only _a little_ shocked to see Peter with the boy she knows as his long-time bully) and Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark, for his part, is clearly enjoying himself more than necessary as he gives them his signature _smirk_ and waggles his eyebrows. “Let me guess. Is it about how Iron Man is your _favorite superhero of all time_?”

(Aunt May snorts, but even as she throws Tony a half-exasperated, half-fond glare, she tellingly doesn’t bother to tell him off for trying to embarrass Peter in front of a classmate. She knows better than to try to stop Tony, by now—not because he’s a wealthy Avenger, but because he’s _Tony who bought Pepper a giant stuffed bunny_ and _Tony who built his best friend a set of leg braces_ and _Tony who stubbornly keeps begging May to let him buy Peter any number of expensive things_.)

Flash _freezes_ cold, his eyes blowing wide open at the sight of Tony Stark standing before them, in the flesh. “Y-You – you’re— _oh my god._ ”

Peter, on the other hand, merely scowls. For him, the novelty of knowing Tony Stark himself wore off long ago (sometime between that one time Tony forgot to drink his coffee and didn’t know how to act like an actual human being, and that _other_ time Tony accidentally _spilled_ his coffee all over himself and had to endure DUM-E blasting the fire extinguisher at him for five whole minutes). 

“I _so_ regret telling you that,” Peter mutters to himself, in lieu of cringing at Flash’s shocked reaction. He might have made up his mind about introducing Flash to the hero who saved New York (or, in Peter’s eyes, the hero who regularly needs help reaching the top cabinet in his own kitchen), but that doesn’t mean he’s _looking forward_ to it.

Mr. Stark’s answering grin is entirely self-satisfied. “I’m never letting you forget it.”

Peter shakes his head. “Sorry, Mr. Stark, but we were talking about how amazing _Thai_ is, not you.”

“You’re choosing _food_ over _me_!?” Mr. Stark demands, faux betrayal painted across his face with meticulous exaggeration.

“It’s _Thai_ food, so the only _right_ answer to that is _duh,_ ” Peter shoots back without missing a beat. 

(There’s a horrified choking noise that Peter is _pretty sure_ comes from Flash.)

Mr. Stark’s jaw unhinges. “This treachery!” he huffs, one hand gripping desperately at his heart for effect. “I can’t _believe_ you, Parker. I didn’t raise you to be such a brat.”

“You didn’t raise me at all, Mr. Stark,” Peter counters without batting an eye. “Now please tell Flash that Thai food is unbeatable.”

Mr. Stark stiffens minutely—unnoticeable to anyone who doesn’t know him well. His mouth snaps shut and his hand swings back down to his side, the playfulness falling away from him in the blink of an eye. Peter knows what he must be thinking—there’s _no way_ Mr. Stark _didn’t_ recognize Flash’s name after all the lab sessions Peter spent complaining about Flash’s treatment of him, after all. 

”In the words of my favorite insolent intern: _duh,_ ” Mr. Stark says coolly, the emphasis on _intern_ not going unnoticed by Peter. He eyes Flash (who’s been trying and failing to keep up with their effortless banter, eyes darting back and forth between Peter and Mr. Stark over and over again as though following a rapid-fire ping-pong match) with abject distrust. 

He turns to Peter with narrowed eyes. “Now, why don’t you introduce us to your _friend_ , Pete?” he asks pointedly.

Peter faintly wonders when Aunt May and Mr. Stark made the leap from a pair of people who could barely stand each other (well, _Aunt May_ could barely stand Mr. Stark, who’d made valiant efforts to regain _some_ semblance of tolerance from her after the truth of Peter’s second identity as Spider-Man came out to her) to a co-parenting unit who could be referred to as an ‘us’. Actually, he’s pretty sure it was after he stumbled home one night with a stab wound on his side, slurring the delirious words _Karen…SOS…stabbed…call Mr. Stark_ to a horrified Aunt May.

Peter shoves the mortifying memory away, sending Mr. Stark a glare that reads _stop bulshitting, Mr. Stark, you know exactly who this is._ “Oh, right,” he says out loud. “Aunt May, Mr. Stark, this is Flash. He’s in the Decathlon team with me. Flash—Aunt May and Mr. Stark.”

“You’re… you’re…” Flash trails off dumbly, gawking at all three of them. His eyes have been growing increasingly wider with every word Peter exchanged with his world-famous mentor. 

“You know who I am,” Mr. Stark says nonchalantly, with the same perfected air of arrogance that all the news reports captured in every feature of _our very own billionaire superhero_. Peter hasn’t seen this side of him since after the whole Toomes fiasco.

“You’re _Tony Stark,_ ” Flash breathes, either not noticing or not bothered by Mr. Stark’s haughty tone. “Holy shit, you’re _Iron Man._ ”

“‘Got it in one, kid.”

“Oh, my god,” he repeats. “Wha – what is _Iron Man_ doing at our Decathlon competition? Wait, you said _intern_ …?” His eyes fill with dawning realization, sneaking Peter a shame-faced and apologetic glance.

Mr. Stark smiles, but it’s nothing like the kind and caring and patient smiles he offers Peter. This one is shark-like and _patronizing,_ full of thinly veiled disgust. “ _Favorite_ intern,” he stresses.

Flash’s cheeks flame.

Peter narrows his eyes at his mentor. “I get to be your favorite because I’m your _only_ intern,” he teases.

“You’d be my favorite even if I had a million other interns,” Mr. Stark mutters, disgruntled.

Peter pretends it doesn’t make him _giddy_ with joy to hear that. By now, he knows, of course, that Mr. Stark sees him as more than _just_ an intern (or _just_ another hero); the picture of the two of them on Mr. Stark’s worktable, the straight-As report card hanging on the fridge, and the way Rhodey _insists_ that Peter calls him ‘Uncle Rhodey’ remind him of that fact everyday. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _appreciate_ the verbal reminder.

Now isn’t the time to melt all over Mr. Stark’s Italian leather shoes, though.

Mr. Stark only drives that point home when he turns to Flash, eyes hard and unrelenting, and starts, “So, _Flash,_ you think you get to belitt—”

“ _Mr. Stark,_ ” Peter interjects, clearing his throat with enough force to startle Mr. Stark into silence, “I asked Flash to join us for dinner. I thought it was about time someone introduced him to my favorite cuisine.”

Flash’s relief is _palpable,_ second only to his gratitude—both for Peter’s timely interruption, and for Peter’s tactful decision to keep the _real_ reason he invited Flash a secret. 

“Of course,” Aunt May steps in, recovering quickly from her shock. When Tony opens his mouth to object, she steps firmly on his foot with the spearlike heel of her stilettos. A sharp _hiss_ of pain leaves Tony on his next breath, but May smoothly covers it up with a kind smile and a warm welcome: “We’d be glad to have you, Flash. You’re going to _love_ Thai.”

Peter breathes a little easier at his aunt’s quick adjustment to the situation. Sometimes (or more like _all the time_ ), his aunt amazes even him. 

Flash clearly agrees. “Thank you, Ms. Parker,” he says politely, stunned by her easy acceptance of his sudden intrusion into a private tradition despite the role he once played in her nephew’s life. “But I, uh, I really don’t _have_ to come,” he adds awkwardly after a moment’s pause, offering Mr. Stark a sheepish glance.

Tony would feel smug, if not for the fact that Flash’s sheepish expression is completely overshadowed by warning glares from both of the Parkers. 

In the end, there’s nothing he can do but force on a smile as he subtly inches away from May and her vengeful heels. “Like May said,” he concedes reluctantly, “we’d be glad to have you.”

Peter sighs in relief.

“Great!” Aunt May is all smiles. “What about MJ? She must be _thrilled,_ having the team win at their first national finals under her guidance. Will she be joining us, too?”

Peter blinks. _MJ!_ “She kind of disappeared,” he admits. “I still need to—”

As if prompted, Peter’s phone buzzes twice. He pauses, mutters an absentminded _hold on_ , and yanks his phone out of his pocket to see MJ’s name on the screen. 

**MJ:** _BTW, I won’t be joining you and May for dinner this time. My dad’s here._

**MJ:** _See you back at the hotel, Parker._

“Never mind,” he says, texting MJ a thumbs-up emoji. “She can’t make it.”

Aunt May hums. “We should get going, then,” she says decisively. She hooks an arm around Tony’s and begins forcefully dragging him away, calling out a jovial _we need to celebrate!_ over her shoulder.

Peter and Flash shrug at each other and wordlessly follow the adults out of the convention center.

* * *

“ _Peter fucking Parker._ You have celebratory dinners with _Tony Stark_?” Flash hisses in Peter’s ear as they trail down the sidewalk, lagging slightly behind Aunt May and Mr. Stark. 

Peter doesn’t have the heart to tell Flash that Mr. Stark’s FRIDAY-equipped earpiece likely allows him to hear what Flash is saying anyway.

“Occasionally,” Peter says reluctantly. “He’s like that overbearing uncle no one will admit they’re sick of.”

(Peter absolutely doesn’t snicker when he sees Mr. Stark’s spine straighten up, a clear sign that he is indeed eavesdropping on Peter’s conversation.)

Flash splutters in disbelief. 

“Is it really that much of a surprise?” Peter asks.

Flash hesitates. Peter half-expects him to scoff and say, _of course it’s a surprise, no one in their right mind would believe that Tony Stark would hire a nobody from Queens._ Instead, Flash shakes his head slowly and admits, “That you actually intern for Stark Industries? Honestly, no.”

Peter swears he can see Mr. Stark _physically_ relax at the sound of that.

“That you _regularly_ have _dinner_ with the owner of Stark Industries? Hell yes,” Flash adds. “Can you blame me?”

Peter giggles a little. “Yeah, I guess it does sound kind of insane when you say it like that.”

Flash snorts. “ _Kind of insane_ is definitely one way to put it.”

Peter bites his lip and exchanges a like-minded glance with Flash. Within seconds, they’re bursting with hysterical laughter loud enough to make them both double over, and to make Aunt May turn around and glare at them suspiciously.

They laugh harder.

* * *

Dinner, surprisingly, is—in Peter’s eyes, at least—a huge success.

Mr. Stark’s frosty demeanor seems to have evaporated completely by the time they sit down in the closest Thai restaurant. He even gives Flash a small, acknowledging smile over the top of the menu—an offer of an olive branch if Peter’s ever seen one. Whatever Mr. Stark took away from Flash and Peter’s not-quite-private conversation on the way to the restaurant, it seems to have appeased him some.

Taking charge, Mr. Stark waves a waiter over and rattles off their usual order, having eaten Thai with the Parkers enough times by now to have all of their favorite dishes memorized. At the end, he pauses, turning to Flash out of consideration. “What about you, kid?” he prompts. “I got a bunch of Pete’s favorites, but I have no idea what kind of food you enjoy. Go ahead, feel free to order whatever. My treat.”

Flash looks startled by Mr. Stark’s friendliness after the billionaire’s initial hostility. “I, uh…” he fumbles for words. Finally, he shrugs and declines, “I’m sure whatever you ordered is great. I’m not picky.”

Tony nods knowingly—after Peter turned down a position among the Avengers and Tony let the kid into his private lab for the first time, he was constantly faced with a nervous Peter Parker for weeks before Peter finally got comfortable with him, and in that time he’d become well-versed in the specific brand of bullshit used by awkward teenagers that all really boils down to _I don’t want to be a bother_ —and sends the waiter away with a quick word of thanks. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he says instead of pushing Flash. 

Flash nods gratefully.

Mr. Stark hums and sets down his menu. “So, Flash,” he starts.

Flash tenses. He shoots Peter a wildly panicked look, resembling a deer caught in headlights more than anything else, inwardly bracing himself for a question on anything from his university applications to his major, long-term career plans.

Instead, what comes out of Mr. Stark’s mouth is: “Pete and I need a tiebreaker vote. Hawaiian pizza—yes or no?”

Flash blinks. And blinks again. _That_ is definitely not even _close_ to what he expected Mr. Stark to say.

Without realizing it, he sags in relief in his seat, releasing his subconscious white-knuckled grip on his fork. To be honest, he’s _sick_ of talking about what “he” wants to do in life (when, in actual fact, his parents won’t allow him to do _anything_ that contradicts _their_ mapped-out vision of _his_ life—which automatically rules out anything and everything to do with the fine arts); his plans for the future are the only things his parents seem to be able to talk about these days. 

He knows his time is running out, but goddamnit, he just wants to be a _kid_ for a _second_ longer. And fine, yes, he’ll do the work, just so long as he doesn’t have to explain (read: _defend_ ) himself and his choices. (He’d be even _more_ willing to chase his future if only his parents weren’t so eager to dictate those very choices.)

“Hard no,” he finds himself saying, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Sorry, but there’s no way I could _ever_ be persuaded to think pineapple on pizza is a good idea.”

Tony Stark— _Tony Stark(!!!),_ Flash’s brain echoes numbly—crows with delight. “Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about!” he exclaims. “Don’t you dare apologize for that. _Peter_ here should be apologizing for _ruining my perfectly good pizza_ with _pineapple_.”

Peter scowls. “It was still _perfectly good_ ,” he mocks defensively.

“Nope!” Mr. Stark grins. “You are so, _so_ wrong.”

(Flash’s jaw drops, because, well, that’s an honest-to-god _grin_ , animated and lively in a way Stark never seems to be on camera.)

“Flash was our tiebreaker, and he’s on my side—the only _right_ side,” Mr. Stark continues with finality. “So I better not see Hawaiian pizza in my house ever again, you little shit.”

Peter shakes his head in disbelief. “I hate you,” he announces. He scrunches his nose at Flash, too. “And you, too, Thompson. I can’t believe you _turned on me_ like this.”

Mr. Stark _cackles._ “Clearly this boy possesses _common sense,_ something _you_ seem to lack.”

Peter promptly reaches out and swats his mentor with a rolled-up Decathlon brochure he found sticking out of his aunt’s handbag.

“Boys,” May cuts in with the long-suffering sigh of an exhausted mother who’s had to admonish her children a few too many times, “ _behave._ ” Completely unsurprised by the turn of events, she gently pries the Decathlon brochure out of her nephew’s hands and meets Flash’s eye across the table, her gaze warm with disguised amusement. 

Flash, on the other hand, ranks on the _surprised as shit_ end of the spectrum. He’s _gaping_ at Peter and Mr. Stark both with a bug-eyed look on his face. In his mind’s eye, he can see Peter Parker whacking _Iron Man_ over the head with his makeshift weapon over and over again. 

And _Iron Man_ doesn’t even bother to scold Flash’s _geeky teammate_ for it.

Instead, Mr. Stark jumps in and immediately begins a new line of conversation, eyes bright as he teases Peter about his answer to the final Decathlon question. “You owe me big time, Parker,” he jokes good-naturedly. “I think I deserve a _Best Mentor in the World_ mug or something.”

As Peter and Mr. Stark devolve into round after round of back-and-forth ribbing, and as the evening slowly fades away into the night, Flash loosens up more and more. And every time one of his three dinner companions strives to include him in the conversation, turning to him with a witty remark or a question of _come on, Flash, you have to have_ some _stories – what’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever seen Peter do?_ , he finds himself forgetting all about his parents’ expectations and condemnations.

Beyond that, Flash finds himself having _fun._ The three ask him all sorts of questions, and not _one_ of them has anything to do with university applications or far-off career choices. They debate about their favorite Disney movies and the best movie snacks and the greatest music genres over (frankly delicious) Thai food, but never about majors and minors.

Flash has never laughed—or smiled—more in his entire life.

(And near the end of the night, when Flash feels comfortable and at ease enough to willingly—and, in fact, _eagerly_ —order a dessert of his own choice, Peter and Mr. Stark share a satisfied grin over his head.

From the way Flash loses his initial reservations, and from the way he now carries himself—with lighthearted _happiness—_ he seems to think the dinner is a huge success, too.)

* * *

Later, when Flash and Peter get back to their hotel, having waved goodbye to both May and Mr. Stark, they quickly check back in with Mr. Harrington before heading up to their shared room. As soon as they’re inside the elevator, Flash grabs Peter by the shoulders and goes _dude._

Peter snickers.

“ _Dude,_ ” Flash repeats. “That was…”

Peter is used to having Mr. Stark in his life by now, but he still nods in agreement. He gets it. “Yeah.”

Flash shakes his head and mouths _wow_ and then _what the fuck_ to himself.

Flash doesn’t even seem to notice where they are, Peter realizes. There’s no fear in his eyes, no memory of near-deaths in teetering elevators, no tension in the twitch of his lips. Instead, there is only lingering excitement.

Flash lets go of Peter, but the grin on his face never wavers. He hesitates, scratches the back of his neck, and means to say _I’m sorry for doubting that you work for Stark._

Instead, what comes out is—“Thank you.”

Peter pauses.

He thinks of Flash tolerating Led Zeppelin (okay, so _yes_ , he _does_ know it’s actually AC/DC and not Led Zeppelin, but he enjoys the twitch of Mr. Stark’s eye whenever he misidentifies the band responsible for _Back in Black_ too much to admit that he knows the truth), of Flash buying him coffee just because he doesn’t want Peter to be the only one without a drink, of Flash ganging up with Aunt May and Mr. Stark to tease him over Thai, and he smiles. “Thank _you_ ,” he says, too.

(Peter thinks of Flash the morning of their Decathlon competition, too, tense as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. At the time, he’d thought there was nothing he could do to make things _better,_ to fix what he broke. And in a sense, he was _right_. Spider-Man can’t help here. 

But he looks at Flash now, at the quiet gratitude in the barely-there smile on his face and at the relaxed slope of his shoulders, and reconsiders. There’s nothing _Spider-Man_ can do to make this better—no amount of super strength can take away Flash’s memories or crush the little voice in his head that quivers with fear—but maybe there’s something _Peter Parker_ can do.)

(At the very least, he can _be there_ for Flash.

They can be there for each other.)

* * *

“ _Wait, what!?_ ” 

Peter winces and pulls the phone away from his ear. “Not so loud, Ned,” he complains. “Super hearing, remember?”

“ _Sorry, sorry—but_ what _? I think I heard you wrong, because I could’ve_ sworn _you just said you had dinner with Aunt May and Mr. Stark and Flash_. _And_ Flash _, Peter!_ ”

Peter chortles. “And Flash,” he confirms.

Ned’s betrayed gasp is only exaggerated, Peter’s pretty sure. “ _Really? Flash Thompson? Am I having a stroke?_ ” he wonders. “ _Why would you invite_ him _of all people!?_ ”

There are so many things Peter could say to that. Maybe: _he helped me study for the competition last night._ Or: _he bought me coffee without expecting anything in return._ Or: _he helped us win Decathlon._ Or: _he didn’t even try to embarrass me in front of Mr. Stark._

Instead, he just says, “He’s not that bad, Ned.”

“ _...so you’re telling me I missed_ one _competition and suddenly Eugene ‘Flash’ Thompson has met Mr. Stark and you think he’s ‘not bad’?_ ”

“Basically, yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

“ _Holy shit, I can never get sick again._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> so… a disclaimer: I know next to nothing about Academic Decathlon and how their competitions work. I did do a bit of research—the 2017-2018 USAD national finals was actually apparently held in Madison, and the theme of the year was Africa—but still: I’m very very clueless about the USAD in general my apologies
> 
> thanks for reading! as always, I appreciate any and all kudos and comments! feel free to let me know what you thought below or on Tumblr ([@iron-loyalty](https://iron-loyalty.tumblr.com)) :)


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